


the fastening of a family

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Loneliness, Panic Attacks, Platonic Soulmates, Ranboo Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Esteem Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I’m not a good person, am I?”Really, his life went wrong from birth, and just keeps going wrong no matter what he does or who he tries to please. Choosing sides, not choosing sides. Helping one person, helping another. It all amounts to the same thing: pain. For him, for everything and everyone around him.Everything just goes… wrong.
Relationships: Edward & Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 859
Collections: Anonymous





	the fastening of a family

**Author's Note:**

> canon? who is she? I only know Edward. 
> 
> this was also written before that stream so like. take that.

Ever since Ranboo can remember, he’s always been a ragged split of half-black and half-white-- his right side being a void of darkness and ever-shifting purple hues and his left side being an iridescent white with undertones of lilac and rosy pink. One side, he knows, is his enderman half, but the other, he has never been sure of. Is he part ghast? Sheep, even? 

He doesn’t know. But what he does know is this:

Not on any inch of skin or strand of hair is there a soulmark to be found.

Soulmarks (though I’m sure you don’t need any explanation) are the marks where your soulmate(s) first touches you, black at first, but once touched they burst into spirals of colour and light. Some glow in the dark, some hold faint echoes of their soulmates’ voice(s), and some may even change colour with their soulmates’ mood. 

Now, you may be thinking, ‘but half of Ranboo is black! he wouldn’t be able to  _ tell _ if he had a soulmark or not!’

Exactly, is what I say to that.

_ Exactly _ .

.

He’s lonely.

He sits in his panic room, head tucked into his gangly knees, and thinks about when his life went wrong. 

It’s a blur. A horrible, terrible, heart-wrenching blur. He remembers waking up in a new world with the sole purpose of becoming the president of a country he didn’t even know all that much about, remembers the cold November wind as he stepped out of that ragged old spawn point-- but most of all, he remembers with vivid intensity every time those that were supposed to help him instead killed or hurt him without warning or remorse. 

After that, it gets even more fuzzy. There’s the exile of Tommy, the slow, careening descent of Tubbo’s kindness, the unravelling of the never-once stable government, the building of the savage Butcher Army, the (thankfully) failed execution of Technoblade, and the explosion of L’Manberg. 

He only remembers the faintest glimpses of the gentle moments-- not because of the lack of them, but, because his memory book is unreliable --who knows what Dream did to it-- and in it was all the good memories of when people helped him, of the little moments in between when Niki snuggled him, or Fundy mined with him, or-- or--

He had friends, hadn’t he? They… they liked him, in some way, surely? 

Did they?

He doesn’t remember.

He feels the pinpricks of blood welling from his legs as his sharp-tipped fingernails curl tighter into his knees, pressing his forehead against them hard enough to give him a headache. “They liked me. They  _ like _ me. They’re my friends. I don’t need my book to know who my friends are. I don’t, I don’t-- I don’t need the book to know who my friends are. Do you? They… they hate you now. They must. They must hate you now. Dream gave them the book, and-- and the book has  _ everything _ in it. They know. They know everything about you. They know  _ everything _ and… 

“I’m not a good person, am I?”

Really, his life went wrong from birth, and just keeps going wrong no matter what he does or who he tries to please. Choosing sides, not choosing sides. Helping one person, helping another. It all amounts to the same thing: pain. For him, for everything and everyone around him. 

Everything just goes… wrong.

The worst part is, he has no one to turn to. Nothing to look forward to in the times to come. He loves his friends, he loves who they are, and he loves the way they smile and how they talk and their little quirks-- but he knows they don’t love him the same way. He sees how Fundy looks at him, like a traitor. He sees how Tubbo looks down at him, like a coward. He sees how Niki treats him, like something glass and fragile and sharp.

He knows how Tommy feels. 

Betrayed, hurt, wary of trusting again.

“If only… If only I had a soulmate,” he whispers as if someone will hear, as if there is something out there that will take pity on him and grant his wish. “But… you don’t deserve one. No, no, I’m not that bad, I’m not that bad. Everyone deserves…  _ someone _ , don’t they?” He shakes his head, laughing wetly. “You don’t though. You don’t. Don’t you remember what you did, how you betrayed your friends? If you can’t even keep your friends happy and safe, why would you deserve someone to keep _ you _ safe? 

“But I’m not like that-- I’m not-- I don’t try to betray my friends, I just… do. I try to help everyone and in doing so I help no one; I betray everyone. I betrayed every. last. one of my friends and-- that’s it.” At this point the green and red blood was mixing in a kaleidoscope of colours down his shins, making his suit pants stick unpleasantly to his now-bruised calves that throbbed in a rather… grounding way. “You betrayed everyone, of course you don’t deserve a soulmate, not even one. Not even one. You don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it, youdon’tdeserveit--”

“Ranboo?”

He shuts up quick, composing himself, straightening his back and dislodging his nails from his knees. He puts on a smile, gets to his feet, and meets Philza at the water door to his panic room.

“Hey Phil!” he peeps, casually hiding his blood-stained hands in his suit pockets. He takes a moment to congratulate himself on not crying-- that would have been a lot harder to hide or waive away successfully.

“You made it out okay, right?” Phil asks, piercing gaze taking in Ranboo’s dishevelled suit, blood-soaked pants, and worn-to-hell smile. 

“Yeah, yeah. A little scuffed up, but otherwise fine,” he lies through his teeth, forcing optimism and joy into the reply. “How’d you find my…  _ calm _ room?”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Your… calm room. Riiight.” He shrugs. “I may or may not have followed you from L’Manberg. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Yup! Perfectly fine,” he chirps. “You don’t have to worry about me, Phil. I’m fine, fine.”

“You’re home just got blown sky high; it’s okay not to be okay, Ranboo,” says Phil with a worried crease in his brow. “No one expects you to be okay with this.”

And the thing is, Ranboo really  _ is _ okay with L’Manberg being blown up. No country, no sides, no conflict. Well, there will still be conflict-- but at least for a while, people will have to work together to build themselves back up again. 

And… L’Manberg was never his home, not really. 

His supposed ‘country’ hurt him more than it had ever helped him.

“It needed to get blown up, I think,” he says quietly, letting the fake-smile fall from his face. “It’s better this way.”

Phil looks like he wants to say something about that, but he sees the look on Ranboo’s face, and he lets it go. “Do you need a place to stay?”

Ranboo looks back at his pets, all nestled inside his unwelcoming panic room, thinks back to the rubble of L’Manberg, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I might need a place to stay.”

.

Living with Philza and Technoblade is strange, but not unpleasant. 

Technoblade is rarely home, but when he is, he talks to Ranboo like he’s any other human being (though he’s far from being one), and he invites him on quests or forest excursions. With Techno, there is rarely a silent moment-- and when there is, it’s not tense or fearful. 

Technoblade may look at Ranboo with suspicion, but never, ever with fear.

Phil is always home, and he’s always offering Ranboo supplies and building tools and services. Phil laughs with him (but not at him), plays games with him, and specifically takes time out of his day to make sure Ranboo is settling in alright. 

Phil trusts Ranboo with a commitment that Ranboo has never experienced before. 

(Maybe, just maybe, he can trust Phil, too)

Then there’s Edward. Who is… strange. Ranboo doesn’t speak Ender, but he doesn’t need to to understand what Edward wants at any given moment. Edward is firm, and rather mother-like in his pestering of Ranboo’s physical and mental health. 

Edward is the first person --enderman or human-- to touch him with anything close to kindness.

.

Ranboo is talking to Phil in the common room, laughing heartily and feeling like his skin is eating itself from the inside out. That happens sometimes, the carnivorous skin-tingling-- most days it happens when he touches water or stands too long in humid air. Today, the air is dry and he hasn’t touched water in days. He’s used to it. It’s fine.

It’s fine, at least, until Phil accidentally brushes his hand against his clothed arm.

The skin there flares into a burning so fierce he can’t clamp down his gasp. It feels like water does after long exposure, except less itchy and more surface-level pain. He grits his teeth and promptly ignores it, giving the arm a shake to dispel the feeling.

But the damage is already done.

“Are you injured?” Phil asks. “Why did you hide it?”

“No, I’m fine,” Ranboo says hurriedly, hunching in on himself a little. “Not injured at all. I’m fine.”

Phil gives his  _ I don’t believe you _ face. “Didn’t sound fine to me.”

“I am! Fine, that is,” he protests. 

That’s when Edward steps in. Figuratively.

Without moving from his boat, he stretches to his full enderman length and snags the collar of Ranboo’s suit. There is no time for escape before Edward tugs him towards him and places him between his other two limbs with his arms wrapped around the smaller hybrid. 

Ranboo is frozen. He can’t move, he can’t think. Everywhere that Edward is touching has instant relief and warmth. All along his back, his neck, his arms, his right wrist, brushing against his half-healed knees. He doesn’t know whether to pull away or to move closer, so he just stays exactly where he is and lets himself be held. 

Edward warbles softly in his ear, but instead of the incomprehensible language of Ender, he hears:

_ You’re not fine, child. _

The ‘you don’t have to be’ is a whisper of the way Edward holds him, an echo of the way the elder tucks him in closer and nestles him further into the warmth-coolness of the enderman’s body. 

(You don’t have to be.)

.

Then, later, when Ranboo dares to open his eyes, he spots the smallest swirl of colour on his right wrist. 

It takes him a solid minute to realize what it is, and another to realize something deeper--

Maybe he does deserve someone, after all.

.

However, it’s not quite as simple as that. 

Ranboo goes back to avoiding physical touch whenever possible, and avoiding Philza even more closely. He doesn’t know what he’d do if the kind, welcoming man (who he’d begun to think of as fatherly; not quite  _ his  _ father yet, but almost, almost) isn’t meant to be in his life, if he isn’t meant to stay with him forever and consistently and familiarly. 

He doesn’t know what he’d do if this gentle, chaotic man rejected him.

.

It’s snowing, the day that he’s brought fully into the family. 

It’s not a big storm, nor is it a small one. On any other day, it would be insignificant and forgotten the next. This day, though--

On this day, the snow is everything.

Ranboo is feeding the cows and tending to the crops when it starts to fall ever-so-gently from the sky. “I’ll finish this and go back inside,” he thinks aloud. “It won’t be too bad if I only stay out for a bit. I might get a bit itchy, but other than that it should be fine. Yeah, I think it will be fine.”

The snow keeps falling, resting on his exposed wrists and face. It itches, yes, but it doesn’t hurt quite yet. “Just gotta feed all the cows,” he says as he fights through the uncomfortable feeling, brushing off the flakes where he can. “Just gotta feed all the cows.”

He’s never known when to quit, really. 

The snow keeps falling, and his skin begins to warm uncomfortably, his right side turning an irritated shade of green. It’s more of a prickling now than an itch, like needles. “Almost done,” he tells himself.

Almost done.

It burns, a river of lava under his skin, carving into his flesh. He struggles to hold wheat up to the final cow’s snout, gripping the fence like it’s a lifeline. He’s almost done, he’s almost done. After this, he’ll go inside, escape the snow, escape the water being flung from the sky. After this, he’ll settle down next to his fire and dry off. He’ll change clothes, bury himself in blankets. Everything will be  _ fine _ .

A hand settles softly on his shoulder, causing a spur of that painful-relief. “You shouldn’t be out here in the snow, Ranboo.”

That isn’t Phil. 

Ranboo whirls around and clamps his tongue on the yelp he wants to give, breath picking up at an alarming rate. His gaze is blurred, and all he sees is the blue and pink of a cloaked being, and the flash of something metallic. 

“Hallo? Earth to Ranboo?”

Something catches in his throat. “Technoblade?”

“That’s me.”

He sags against the fencepost, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Uhhhhhh.” That was such a Techno ‘uhhh’ that it relaxed Ranboo further, even with the fire crackling angrily under his skin. “I’m me, so I don’t know what you were thinkin’. You doin’ okay?”

  
“Of course,” he chokes out with a watery smile. “I’m just going to go into my house now, if you don’t mind.” Staggering unsteadily to his feet, he prepares to walk the short distance to his wall-less shack. Each breath feels like knives digging into his lungs, the water-sickness sinking deeper into him with every beat of his hearts. But he can make it. He has to make it.

“Nuuuh, you’re comin’ to my house. I don’t trust you to take care of yourself properly.” A hand ducks under one of Ranboo’s arms, hitching him up to lean against a warm chest. “Reckless children,” Technoblade mutters.

Ranboo is too shocked to protest. Everywhere that Techno is in contact with is numb and… relaxed, almost? He’s not tense anymore, and the water sickness seems lesser. That makes no sense, though. Why does he feel better when being held by others?

He doesn’t notice when Technoblade slides an arm underneath his knees, nor does he notice as the world seems to spin and his consciousness recedes.

.

“Welcome to the world of the living.”

He’s warm, and dry, and comfortable, and he can’t be bothered to open his eyes further than a squint. Through his slitted vision, he sees a pink snout close to his face, and black eyes that seem to stare into his soul. The eye contact is uncomfortable, he doesn’t like it, so he closes his eyes again. 

“Nuh nuh nuh, don’t go back to your grave.” 

Fingers curl into his fluffy pajamas (when had he changed out of his suit?) and tug him upright, ignoring his annoyed groans.

“C’mon, you gotta eat something.”

He sighs. Opening his eyes fully, he’s greeted by the sight of scrambled eggs and hashbrowns, steaming lightly in the warm cabin air. “You… you made this for me?”

Techno snorted. “Of course not: Phil did. Do you think I know how to cook?”

Ranboo laughs, a genuine laugh that isn’t nervous or forced. “I’m sure you could cook if you wanted to. You’re the Blade! I’m sure you could do  _ anything _ if you wanted to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Eat this before it gets cold, nerd.”

He does, and he lets that warm feeling in his chest grow. Normally, he’d feel the water sickness for days or even weeks afterwards, but right now it’s only a dull throbbing in his bones. For the first time since joining the server, he feels safe, cared after, ready to face the world. 

“Thank you, Technoblade, thanks, Philza!” Ranboo pipes up once he’s finished, leaning forwards into his crossed legs. “You didn’t have to.”

Phil smiles. “Don’t mention it, kiddo.”

“That’s what soulmates do, isn’t it?” Techno says gruffly.

… soulmates?

Ranboo inspects his hands with a critical eye, seeing no new colours. “Where?”

Phil ruffles a hand through his once-black-and-white hair. “Ya got some pretty colours here, mate. It’s all blue and purpley.”

“On your neck,” Techno grunts off-handedly. “Just a little pink dot.”

Ranboo clenches his hands over the blanket on his legs, his head lowered. “Are you… are you disappointed?” 

“You’re a good kid, Ranboo,” Phil says. 

“No reason to be disappointed,” says Techno.

“But I…”

“Look. Ranboo.” Techno lifts his head by the chin, and for once Ranboo doesn’t mind their eyes meeting. “Me and Phil, we aren’t the good guys. Sure, we stick to our ideals and we don’t betray our friends-- but that doesn’t mean that we haven’t done bad things. The end may justify the means, but that doesn’t make the means just  _ disappear. _ We’ve killed people. We’ve blown up… basically everythin’ at this point. Whatever you’ve done, it can’t come close to what we’ve done.”

Phil wraps an arm around him. “I think you’re cool to have around, mate. If anything, I’m disappointed that  _ you _ have such effed up soulmates. I’m effing lucky with my soulmates, in my opinion.”

Ranboo sniffles, and wipes his hands furiously against his face to prevent tears, but Techno and Phil gently take one hand each and pull them away from his face. 

“It’s okay to not to be okay, Ranboo,” Phil tells him.

And this time, Ranboo believes him.


End file.
